Arabella is NOT the name of my pet pony.

Yup -that’s me. Not always baking, but definitely always BAKED.

In fact, Arabella is the name that appeared on the SECOND bottle of wine I had in only 4 days. Yes, some may say I am slithering (note to Paul: the words, slither and sliver, have very different meanings) down THAT very dangerous slope again. I would prefer to think that I am layering up my coat of armour; bracing myself for the next onslaught; driving myself to distraction.

But, damn, I am so very bulletproof. No headaches, nausea, loosening of morals or pole-dancing. At the very most, expect a tad more swearing, loosening of bowels (although, this could be partly due to an excessive intake of hummus) and flattened vowels. Eastern Cape-style, Baby! That’s how I role!

And, this social-phobe actually had people round last night for a braai. And it was all or nothing. So, my obsessive compulsive streak  manipulated my behavioural patterns to the extent that I did the whole she-bang. Cue salad x 2, hummus (another one of nature’s laxatives), pita’s, potato dish, tastefully origami-folded paper serviettes, choc brownie cake that would impress Gordon F#$%-ing Ramsay, coffee and my delightful personality.

It was fabulous, Darling.  Even had leftovers for lunch.

Strange, but true fact: There is now a show on TV called, ‘Dark days in Monkey City.’

No. Really.


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